


Rush Hour

by ariannenymerosmartell (somethingmoo)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingmoo/pseuds/ariannenymerosmartell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The New York City subway system is hell during rush hour. But what's hell without a heaven?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rush Hour

The A train during rush hour is absolute hell. Pyp knows this statement is not hyperbolic, is not overly dramatic, is not merely an opinion. It is a simple fact, a pure truth that any New Yorker will tell you, a look of disgust and annoyance crossing their features.

Not that Pyp considers himself a New Yorker. He’s just a student at the Tisch School of the Arts, a lowly freshman, a grunt. His stage presence so far has included him being a back-up tree. The prime tree had shown up, though, and he’d merely sat in the back, being a back-up tree. Ignored, and unwanted.

_This_ , Pyp thinks bitterly, _is how the ents must have felt_. Relegated to the side, ignored, forgotten. Not that Pyp is anywhere near ent-like. He’s not large, and tall, and strong. He’s slender, and slight, toned but not built. He doesn’t think there’s anything really distinctive about him, other than his ears. Which, in the acting world, isn’t a coveted feature. No, there’s nothing Pyp has to offer, not when his classmates are all model-like, each one more stunning than the last. He thinks of the pretty boy in his year, Satin, or something like that, who’s so stunning even some of the senior girls, the ones who already had real parts in shows and commercials, were awed by him. _Bloody pretty boys_ , Pyp thinks to himself, and braces his head back against the doors of the train in frustration.

This is how he finds himself on the A train during rush hour— because he was sad, and wallowing, and when one is sad, and wallows, they go to this little dumpling spot, just off the A stop at Utica Avenue. This is what one does, when they are a struggling actor feeling bad about themselves. They leave Manhattan, trek to the shady part of Brooklyn, and get cheap dumplings. So he boards the crowded, crowded train, and presses his back up against the doors, trying to avoid the crushing masses of tourists, those taking the A to JFK, the over large suitcases, the large families, the annoyed everyday commuters.

He closes his eyes, fully intending to sleep standing up until he gets to his stop, when someone jostles his arm with such a force he thinks it might be broken. Of course, he’s being over dramatic, but _still_.

"Excuse me," he says sharply, because in New York, on the A in rush hour, you’re either sharp and bold, or buffeted around by anyone and everyone. He turns to get a look at the guy who had bumped into him, and finds himself staring up ( _Of course staring up_ ,he thinks, annoyed. _When aren’t I looking up at someone in this blasted city full of giant men?_ ) at a tall, tall, tall red head, with huge arms, and shaggy red beard.

When he gets over his height, (6’6” _at least_ , Pyp thinks) his brain registers the fact that he’s kinda cute, in that Mid-Western good ole’ boy kinda way. He’s got that kinda look to him, from the worn tennis shoes, to the worn jeans, to the worn flannel stretched tight across his chest and his giant arms.

He’s been so into checking the guy out, that he missed the sheepish smile the guy was giving him, complete with cutely ducked head. 

"Sorry," giant says, and yep, Pyp notes. Definitely Mid-Western. He’s got an ear ( _what a pun_ , Pyp thinks) for that kinda thing.

"I’m not used to…" the giant gestures to the crowded train, and blushes, cheeks turning as red as his beard.

Pyp grins at that. “Don’t worry about it, man,” he says. “It can be overwhelming at first.”

"Tell me about it," giant mutters, looking around in awe. "I don’t even think my home town has as many people as are just in this one compartment!"

"Where are you from?" Pyp asks, and okay, yeah, he might be flirting, but it’s really more that he wants to know if he’s right, if his sole talent is still intact.

"Nowheresville, Oklahoma," the giant says with a little laugh. "It’s the definition of a one horse town."

"Hey," Pyp says, grinning. "I’m pretty sure there’s only one horse in New York City too." The joke falls flat though, and the giant stares at him blankly.

"Sorry," Pyp mutters. "Bad joke."

"No!" The giant says quickly, giving him a small smile and a shaking laugh. "No, trust me, it was a funny joke. It’s just… my brother says I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes."

Pyp shakes his head, but gives a smile. “No, I know a bad joke when I make one. I was just trying to impress you, is all.”

The guys brows furrow then, and that’s when Pyp realizes his mistake. _Fuck _. Big, burly, red-head from Oklahoma? What are the odds that he’s gonna be open to being hit on by a guy, especially one like Pyp, and _fuck_ , he’s _fucked_.__

"Impress me?" the guy says though, sounding genuinely confused. "Why?" 

Pyp sputters for a bit, unsure of how to answer, when the guy barrels on. 

"I mean, you’re gorgeous and funny and why on earth would you be trying to impress…" 

I’m wha— excuse me," Pyp says again, for the second time in this conversation. "Have you met yourself? Have you _seen_ yourself?” 

"Yes," the giant says glumly. "Big, hairy, giant, stupid red—" 

"Handsome, funny, clearly clever… gods, I’m swooning, and I don’t even know your name." 

The guy laughs. “I’m Grenn,” he says, sticking his hand out. 

"Pyp," he says, marveling at the guy’s firm handshake, large hands, and calloused fingers. 

"I’m a farm hand," Grenn says, when he notices Pyp staring at his hands. "I, uh—" 

"For the one horse," Pyp asks, cursing himself all the while for awful joke, but Grenn laughs, loud and clear. 

"I got it that time," Grenn says, brightly, blue eyes lighting up, and gods, how did he not notice his gorgeous eyes before? _Probably because you were too busy staring at his biceps_ , he thinks to himself. 

Pyp feels himself grinning ridiculously up at him, because he’s made this handsome blue-eyed, redhead laugh, and how the fuck often does that happen on a New York City subway? On the fucking A? 

"Where are you headed," Pyp asks, knowing it won’t be Utica Avenue, because the gods didn’t like him that much. 

"Times Square?" Grenn says hopefully, and Pyp’s heart sinks. 

"Dude," he says, trying to sound apologetic. "You’re going to wrong way. You’re on the downtown A. This is going to Brooklyn. You need the Uptown." 

"Fuck," Grenn curses under his breath, and then gives him an apologetic smile. "Told you I was stupid." 

"No," Pyp says, fiercely. "It’s an easy mistake, and gods know I’ve done it once or twice. Tell you what. The next stop is High Street. We’ll get off there, the uptown is just across the platform, and we’ll take the next one back up.” 

"We?" Grenn says, with a little smile, and _ah fuck_. He’d really just gone and invited himself along and _fuck_. 

"Well, I just meant that I—" 

Grenn shakes his head though. “No, you said ‘we.’ You’re committed now. And since I’m diverting you from your plans, I insist you let me buy you dinner and drinks when we get there.” 

Pyp falters for a minute, but then can’t stop the dorky smile that spreads across his face. “You’re on. I am giving up dumplings for you.” 

Grenn grins. “I promise, you’ll get more than just dumplings tonight.” 

Grenn blushes bright red then, and Pyp laughs, taking his arm and leading him off the train at High Street. The Uptown A comes within minutes, and soon they’re back to standing against the doors, with Pyp still laughing and Grenn still blushing. 

"I’d hope so," Pyp says, testing his luck. "I’m not a cheap date." 

Grenn grins at him, though, the same wide, dorky one he can feel plastered on his face, and gods Pyp never thought he’d be grateful for the fucking A train during rush hour, but here he is. 

"And who knows," Grenn says, blushing bright red, but leaning down and muttering in his ear, which sends the best kinds of shivers down his spine. "I might need help finding my way back to my hotel later." 

_Yep_ , Pyp thinks, as he turns and kisses Grenn full on the mouth. _Best train, that A train_. 


End file.
